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Rude Rural Rhymes 



Bob Adams 



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Price 50 Cents 



Publi=hed by 

Bob Adams Syndicate 

Ithaca. N.Y. 

1922 






Copyright 

Robeit Moirill Adams 

1922 



FEB 16 "23 

©C1A698388 



Dedicated to 

Hannah 

who has a sense 

of Humor 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Being A Boy 

You know the Quaker poet writes of 
barefoot boys and their delights, of 
barefoot boys with cheek of tan and 
summer hills o'er which they ran — at- 
tractive pictures for the jaded, in 
rural rhymes that have mine faded; 
but of their truth I'm not persuaded. 
If at my side som,e potent fairy, with 
wings and wand both waving airy, 
should stop and offer me the jovs 
which appertain to barefoot boys, I'd 
say "What mischief are you brewing? 
Don't vamp me, dear; there's nothing 
doing. Go off and tempt some other 
man to be a boy with cheek of tan." 
My tan was localized in speckles; T 
was a boy with cheek of freckles, legs 
scratched with thorns and stuck with 
suibble and bruised .vitli stones and 
other rubble. I had no money when I 
would have. I had no hanky when I 
should have. I loved the preLty school 
marm misses, but primer kids got ail 
the kisses, or grown up lads who had 
the pluck; and hah grown b^ys wr-rc 
out of luck. Too many rocks waylaid 
n.y toe; the new nails took too long 
to grow. Tl;9 tliorn.s of life tjo (;:: 
would prick me, too many lackkiiives 
used to nick me, too many other boys 
'^^ould lick me. Too numy bossies Ke; i 
me harried; I have but one since I got 
married. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



The Graduates 
O where are now the graduates w]jO 
left in June the college gates in fifties 
and in forty-eights, and those that 
swarmed from high school hives by 
twenties and by twenty-fives, all eager 
for to try their wings and eke the 
sharpness of their stings? We do not 
know where they have gone, but this 
we know, when years are flown, and 
gristle hardened into bone, when 
they're ground smooth where life's 
wheels whirr, they will be what they 
thought they were. Meanwhile they 
help to give us pep, with this old world 
to keep in step. If I my weight of years 
could shake, another trip through life 
to take, I would not start where life 
began nor be a boy with cheek of tan, 
a-wearing father's cut down clothes 
with big stone bruises on my toes: 
but I would choose a later date and ])e 
a fresh young graduate. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



In Praise of Plumbing 

I sing the bathtub and its uses, its 
soap and suds and cleansing juices. 
How dear to my heart is its porcelain 
lining when Hannah has scmbbed it 
all clean and all shining, with nowhere 
upon it a circle of dark, some bather 
has left for a high water mark. How 
dear to my heart is the hot water fau- 
cet, the rack and the towels that 
spread out across it. I stand awhile oil 
one foot, first, just while the suds are 
at their worst, then teeter 'round up- 
on the other to rest and cool its par- 
boiled brother. As soon as I can stand 
the heat, I put in both my size-ten 
feet. The water still is over hot; I 
step about before I squat, in hopes to. 
find a cooler spot, and waiting yet an- 
other minute, I gingerly settle the rest 
of me in it. When I was young we had 
no tubs in which to take our weekly 
scrubs. If pa would bathe he had to 
pitch in and pack somie water to the 
kitchen. When that was hot, he call- 
ed for Bub to rustle up a laundry tub. 
And thei'e, with lather overlaid, cold 
kitchen drafts upon him played. Some 
folks keep warm with fat and loose 
flesh, but pa was thin and ran to 
goose flesh. He sprung the door a cau- 
tious crack; his deep bass voice rang 
through the shack and called for ma 
to wash his back. Then slipping in the 
soapy juice, he fell and jarred his 
backbone loose. O we have griefs and 
more are coming, but glory be for 
modern plumbing. Our lives of weal 
and woe are mixtures, but we have al! 
the modern fixtures. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



A Seed-Time Song 

Sweet spring has come, her days 
are fair, her bluebirds flutter in the 
air. The noonday sun upon my lid is 
ghining hotter than it did. The blood 
of some ancestral gypsy is making me 
a little tipsy. Spring tickles me and 
makes me teeter, let's change to 
some more jazzy meter. Spring is the 
time to sharpen up the steel hoes, rub 
up the rakes and oil up the wheel 
hoes. I want to garden when I see the 
neighbors, digging in the dirt and sing- 
ing at their labors; old blue jeans and 
straw hat thatches, loosening the 
loam in old potato patches. I can kick 
a spade in spite of my bunions, I'll 
raise some beets, I'll raise some 
onions. I can work a hoe, in spite of 
my blisters, in among the corn and the 
pole bean twisters. I'll miake a dollar 
if I make a nickel, coaxing along a 
cucumber pickle. Stirring up the soil 
is good for rheumatics, good for your 
liver, your lights and lymphatics. 
Even supposing that every crop fails 
you, still the old garden is good for 
what ails you. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



The Ad On The Fence 

I love my country's rocks and rills 
and feign would move from off her 
hills the billboard ads for liver pills. 
I love to gaze on some old barn that 
stands by wood or rock or tarn. I 
love its curves and graceful lines, its 
weathered boards from oaks and 
pines. I love its silo, cribs and mows, 
its Plymouth Rocks and brindle cows 
my farm-bom heart witn pleasure 
swells when I inhale its rich, lipe 
smells. But O I hate to see its back, 
exposed to road or railway track, in 
glaring paint give doubtful dope on 
some one's double-action soap, or urge 
relief from human ills by chewing six- 
teen-horsepowor pills. Around yon 
curve the engine scoots, and wayworn 
travelers press their snoots against 
the dusty window-panes, while tired 
eyes and weary brains drink in the 
peace of hills and plains. Forgetting 
cares and lack of cash, they gaze on 
fields of succotash. Green growin.;^ 
groves where dryads roost and bab- 
bling brooks their spirits boost. Tq 
keep these haunts for nymphs and 
Pan, the bilious billboard let us ban. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



The Heritage 
I dwell in town, for me no more 
stretch woods and fields tlie house be- 
fore. Across the street, to side and 
rear, the homes of other men press 
near. Yet, come cold winds and cold- 
er rain and snow and shortened days 
again, to rural thoughts my mind 
goes back; I want a Farmers' Alman- 
ac, with longing strange, compelling, 
mystic, and doubtless partly atavistic. 
Old Bay State sires urge, "Take it 
from us the one you w^ant is good 
old Thomas." New Hampshire an- 
swers, "We'll not hev it, now look 
here, son, you get a Leavitt." And 
thus distracted, nothing loath, I com- 
promise and buy them both. Then first 
I scan above each date quaint pictures, 
old, appropriate; in Thomas see Sol's 
classic track, the twelve signs of the 
zodiac; while Leavitt limns field work 
and chores, the loaded wain, the lusty 
mowers. I shun the cold months next 
the cover and other chill days further 
over, but linger most where summer's 
charm lies light and sweet on wood 
and farm. I heed no more the winter 
storm; my days of June are "fair and 
warm." I hear the drip of summer 
showers, I feel the heat of noonday 
hours; in rest and labor, rain and 
shine, my fathers' life once more is 
mine. New Hampshire trusts to Deav- 
itt's promise while Massachusetts 
cleaves to Thomas, and so their son, 
a hybrid growth, is well content lo 
swear by both, no strain upon the 
double tether since both sing sun and 
growing weather. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Antf-Fat 

If more of fat than lean and bone 
is found along your central zone, and 
you admit within your soul, if you 
should fall, that you would roll, think 
less of victuals, less of quiet and more 
of exercise and diet. Let me advise, 
in due proportions, the morning Wal- 
ter Camp contortions. I've taught my 
uncle, aunt and cousin to take each 
day their Daily Dozen. But, as the oil 
hymn says of heaven, no other rule 
than this is given, that you must 
fight if you would win, deny yourself 
if you'd be thin; cut out the sugar, 
starch and fat, the punkin pie and 
things like that. O brothers in this 
noble cause, pray work your limbs and 
not your jaws. O bald-head boys 
once young and nifty, who now are 
forty-odd and fifty, you should have 
gardens growing thrifty. Peel off your 
coats and prove your worth; cut off 
the inches from your girth by plant- 
ing murphies in the earth. To give 
the work your system needs, between 
the rows sprout harmful weeds. Go 
get a hoe and roughly treat them; 
raise lots of spuds, but do not eat 
them. Great is the hoe and great its 
use to all fat men who would reduce. 
So grab the same and swing it thuslv 
among the rag-weed and the pusley. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Show Your Colors 

The autos glide on streets and 
strands the Henries and the other 
brands. Of these machines I meet a 
host, and though I dodge as spry as 
most, I often rise from where I'm 
flung with bitter words upon my 
tongue, and having dusted off my 
clothes once more to Congress I pro- 
pose some colored tags to show who 
drives that men may flee and save 
their lives, tags uniform for all the na- 
tion and furnishing some indication of 
what we may expect to meet when 
folks come tooting up the street. The 
driver with his first machine shall 
sport a license tag of green. When he 
has hit and mained a few we'll change 
the same to black and blue, while he 
who leaves a victim dead henceforth 
shall wear a tag of red. But O, the lad 
who drives aright, is safe and sane 
and eke polite shall earn a number 
plate of white. And when at last he 
sprouts his wings, to welcome him 
from earthly things a shining angel 
crew shall hem the walls of new Jeru- 
salem. Right careful of his Lizzio's 
rim, lest he should bump the cheru- 
bim, he'll flivver up the golden street 
and shake the hand of good Saint 
Pete. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



The Tested Herd 

This is the farmer who said "By 
dam, I'll build me a big red dairy 
barn." These are the black and white 
tested cows that stand in the stable 
beneath the mows, on the farm of the 
farmer whose big red barn is the start- 
ing point of all this yarn. These are 
the kiddies as fine as silk, because 
they drink so much of the milk that 
comes from the black and white test- 
ed cows, that stand in the stable be- 
neath the mows, on rhe farm of the 
farmer who builded u place for the 
foster-mothers of all the lace. These 
are the carrots and beets and beans 
which furnish some more of the 
vitamines, to help raise kiddies as 
fine as silk who drink, each one, a 
quart of the milk, that daily con? 93 
frv)m tiie tested cows, that stand in the 
stable beneath the mows, on the farm 
of the public benefactor who has rid 
his herd of the last reactor. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Man Needs Them Still 

The hired misn between their chews 
had stopped and spat and aired their 
views where listening cows couid 
hear the news. So Jersey Jane nudged 
Guernsey Ann, shifted her cud and 
thus began. "I hear that Henry Ford 
allows that he can make some flivver 
cows, and since he never works by 
halves, no doubt some motorcycle 
calves. Do you believe, good sister 
Ann, that we shall lose our use lo 
man? Is our long history complete, 
and will they make us into meat?" 
Said Guernsey Ann to Jersey Jane. ' I 
share your fears, I share your pain." 
To hold his peace no longer able, thus 
spake old Dobbin from his stable: "O 
pray excuse this horse laugh grinny, 
but wouldn't Lizzie's milk be tinny? 
It makes me smile, it makes me 
snicker, it makes me whinny, neign 
and nicker. Your dams have known 
the herdsman's care since Eve was 
young and Eden fair. You topped 
with cream man's coffee cup ere 
good old Hector was a pup, and folks 
won't risk their lights and livers by 
drinking milk that comes from fliv- 
vers. So Jane and Ann pray cease to 
weep, swallow your cuds and go to 
sleep. You still shall serve your hu- 
man lords in spite of fifty Henry 
Fords." 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Swat Them Now 

Helena Hicks is witty and wise with 
adequate muscles and accurate eyes, 
adapted for spotting and swatting the 
flies. When any youth a partner picks 
he'd better m^ly Helena Hicks than al- 
most any other six. This bard is old 
and bald and wary, of all strange 
drinking water scary, since first ne 
heard of Typhoid Mary; but what 
avails his constant care when flies are 
swarming everywhere? When, in the 
good old summer time, which singers 
sing and rhymers rhyme, he sits ai 
peace with all mankind, with nothing 
much upon his mind and very little on 
his skin, those blamed invertebrates 
begin. They come from stables and 
from worse to boost the business of 
the hearse. They come from garbage 
heaps and such, defiling everything 
they touch, with germs to slay our 
wives and widdies, our grandads and 
our pretty kiddies. Yea, many men 
have chills and itch, have glanders, 
pip and limbs that twitch, and many 
little children die, because we fail to 
swat the fly. Let's smite the critter 
for his sins, his wives, his triplets 
and his twins, his relatives by scores 
and dozens, his sons-in-law and second 
cousins. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Fast Time 
O in the good old pre-war days, 
which all sane men delight to praise, 
when Phoebus chased away the dark, 
the farmer rose as did the lark. Sini.e 
legislative Jabberwocks began to tink- 
er with the clocks and strive, like 
Joshua, at will to move the sun or 
hold it still, he now must rise ere 
peeps are heard from any self-respect- 
ing bird. The gent who brings fresh 
milk to me was wont to start for town 
at three. To pail that milk for you and 
John, he had to quit the hay at one. 
In his snug bed he might not tarry for 
fear of kicks from Dick and Harry. 
But now in summer, spring and fall 
the milk man never sleeps at all, for 
when he takes the town ward track be 
meets himself just coming back. We 
view old Sol with grave alarm when 
summer days are overwarm, but when 
we ask what time it is, that pie-faced 
planet is a whiz. I'll tell the world the 
job is his. And so I dedicate a rhyme 
Xo this here daylight slaving time. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



The Melancholy Days 
The melancholy days have come — 
I'll say they're melancholy in that 
dame's house whose worthless spouse 
provides green wood, by golly. Just 
such a cuss is neighbor Jim; it is not 
lack of time with him, but mostly laz- 
iness and whim. Oft on the bench 
which stands before the well-known 
village general store, so ordered as to 
balance best, he brings his loose-hung 
frame to rest, and there instead cf 
sawing wood, he gives advice for 
Harding's good. O on the hills and on 
the mountains, by busy brooks and 
fizzy fountains, a lot of pines, a 
bunch of oaks, await our rough and 
ready strokes and all are crammed, 
both trunk and limb, with exercise for 
me an Jim. Let's chop them up for 
Kate and Prue, then dry them out a 
year or two. For if it were my lot m 
life to cut the kindling as Jim's wife 
I often think that I would pick an ex- 
tra knobby, gnarly stick, then softly 
seek that loafer's frame intent to 
bean him with the same. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



The Descent of Man 

I point with pride to that old monk- 
ey who sired the human race, by 
hunky. A faulty race both then and 
now, yet even pessimists allow he 
started something anyhow. When man 
first slid down from the trees, sloughed 
off his tail, unkinked his knees, 
forsook his safe old forest seat and 
stood straight up on his hind feet, he 
was a homely husky dub who scorned 
the weekly cleansing tub and ruled 
his soul-mate with a club. And when 
she talked of rights, I ween, he did 
not fuss nor make a scene but bounced 
big boulders off her bean. That 
female of the species bluff, he called 
it quick and called it rough. He let 
his hair and whiskers sprout, save 
when some rival yanked them out. 
He ate raw meat both hair and hide, 
then crunched the bones for fat in- 
side. We view this caveman with dis- 
gust when his rude manners are dis- 
cussed. In age, in middle life and 
youth, his roughneck ways were most 
uncouth. Yet what we think of that 
old cuss our sons will doubtless think 
of us. Give me the man whose tools 
had stoneheads instead of certain 
modern boneheads. Sleek citizens who 
fail to vote, buy bootleg booze or rock 
the boat. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Johnny Appleseed 
I'll write, that lie wlio runs may 
read, a rhyme of Johnny Appleseed. 
Men called him cracked, his ways 
were quaint, he was a hero and a 
saint. His praise the heavenly chorus 
sings while all the angels flap their 
wings. He left the town, the beaten 
track, with apple seeds upaon his back, 
and where he saw a likely site ne 
planted them to left and right; then 
lying on ithe ground at night he 
thought of more unselfish schemes 
and planted apples in his dreams. May 
Heaven send for modern need more 
men like Johnny Appleseed. He ate 
each day one fruit or more but never 
threw away the core. The seeds he 
rescued from his jaw blessed later 
gents he never saw, and not a tree he 
ever stuck bore fruit that he would 
ever pluck, but wh'^n our fathers em- 
igranted they found young orchards 
ready planted. What though your 
work men never know and credit it to 
me or Joe, let's do our darndest here 
below. I too will twang the lyre again 
to benefit my fellow-men. I too will 
rise and write some rhymes that folks 
may grin in these hard times. And 
when discourged, stumped and treed, 
I'll think of Johnny Appleseed. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Sweet Spring 
Sweet spring has come, the peep 
frogs peep; I hear the critters in my 
sleep. For some are thin with voices 
shrill while others hoarser music spill. 
One fellow yawns "ho hum, ho hum"; 
another answers "jug o' rum." Sweet 
spring has come, her raindrops thud 
to reinforce the juicy mud and swell 
the fresheit to a flood. The buds have 
shed their winter coats, the pretty 
birdies feel their oats and pour sweet 
music from their throats. Sweet 
spring has come, the young mans 
fancy is fluttering from Jane to 
Nancy, while his new tie, with wide 
stripes o'er it, is louder than the one 
before it. His girl ixi new spring sty^e 
appears, with less of legs and more of 
ears. A dream is her new Easter bon- 
net; a nightmare was (the price tag on 
It. Sweet spring has come yet winds 
are bitey; I wish I'd kept my winter 
nighty. By day the zephyrs hit my 
knees just where the Boston garters 
squeeze, between my socks and B. v. 
D's. I've shed ,too soon my winter flan- 
nels; my blood is frozen ii»its chan- 
nels. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



The Water's Fine 
This bard though bald, is fairly 
slim; his years are not yet hurting 
him, but youth recedes from day to 
day and boyhood scenes seem far 
away. Already dimmer through the 
haze shine memories of the good old 
days, and other kids both plump and 
slim possess the creek he used to 
swim. By their free masonry the boys, 
e'en at their books, foretaste its joys. 
Two fingers raised (or is it three?,) 
mean "After school come swim with 
me." In frantic haste their shirts they 
shuck, tbeir britches from their legs 
they pluck, yet pause awhile before 
they duck; for one and all the little 
scamps, before they brave the chilly 
damps, perform the rite that wards 
off cramps. O bare brown limbs sun- 
health imbibing! O boyhood joys be- 
yond describing! Come, comrades of 
the good old times, and all old boys 
who read these rhymes; shuck off the 
cares that vex the soul, let middle 
age from off you roll and join me at 
the swimming hole. Why should we 
pause because we're bigger? "Last one 
in's a red-head nigger." Forget your 
years e'en though you've got 'era; 
"Bet you I can bring up bottom." 
"Gosh, old Fatty you look queer." "So 
deep. Skinny, lookahere." 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



The Other Fellow's Sins 

Though not in sooth a guide to 
youth, I do, by contrast, shine, since 
other jays have tricks and ways a 
blame sight worse than mine. If Bill 
Smith's pipe is rank and ripe and 
stinks when it's on fire, while my ci- 
gar is milder far. Bill ought to chuck 
his briar. I boost no sales of coffin 
nails, or loose or ready rolled, so 
want the state to legislate that they 
shall not be sold. If cigarettes were 
my best bets, I'd advocate some laws 
to slam the guys who exercise with 
quids between their jaws. I'm wrong 
at that, my head is fat; I ought to 
have more sense, and my own faults 
should gfive me jolts not those of 
other gents. At his own sins a fellow 
grins but frowns on those lof others. 
If he were wise he'd sympathise, and 
help his erring brothers. Though Pet- 
er Reese steals only geese^^that man 
he should not scorn, who «wnds a use 
for all that's loose in feamer, hair or 
horn. If every gink would stop and 
think, ere he bawled out his neigh- 
bor, he'd save, I wot, his strength a 
lot to use in gainful labor. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



The New Year's Sun 

I send the joyful message forth that 
go.od old Sol is coming north. He 
paused upon his southward track, I 
gather from the almanac, then slowly, 
surely started back. O soon he'll quit 
those far off geezers, the southern 
zone Antipodesers, and they in turn 
will be the freezers. But though he 
leave the gents forlorn who cluster 
south of Caprioorn, I trust this 
thought may ease their pain, that 
southern loss is northern g'ain; and 
none should scowl or knit his brow, 
for they have got their innings now. 
While here we wither with pneumon- 
ia, sweet summer singes Patagonia. 
While we have snow and ice all over, 
New Zealand lies knee-deep in clover. 
They're picking peaches in Tasmania 
while frost is frizzling Pennsylvania. 
With last year's resolutions rusted, 
some rules of conduct we have busted, 
but since the sun has made the turn 
our souls with high resolve should 
burn. Let's shaKe, December thirty- 
first, besetting sins with which we're 
cursed, and ere we seek our cots and 
couches, cut out our meanness and our 
grouches. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Irrigate Your Eden 

Believe me if all thosi endearing 
young charms, possessed by your fair 
spouse, are going to stay, you'll have 
to pay for water in the house. There's 
a long, long trail a-v/inding down to 
the farm yard pump, and if you make 
her travel it you are a selfish chump. 
"Drink to me only with thine eyes" is 
very fine to sing, but in the use of 
houshold juice, it doesn't mean a 
thing. To hew the wood that cooks the 
food and then to tote the water, it is 
not fair to make the share of mother, 
wife or daughter. O in the Suanee 
river and between the Wabash banks, 
a lot of water runs to waste that we 
might store in tanks, while many 
wives have up and died, and others 
wanted to, because they had no pipes 
of lead with water gurgling through. 
Silver threads among the gold, the 
passing years will send; don't hasten 
them — have iron pipes with spigots in 
the end. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



A Shirtsleeves Song 
By those who rules of conduct 
quote, I'm told a man must keep his 
coat, e'en though the hotness get his 
goat. 0, when the sun pours ton-id 
heats upon the houses and the streets 
and when the women, lovely dears, 
are keeping cool except their ears, 
with nice silk stockings on each 
frame, and other clothes I may not 
name, with little waist and still less 
skirt; why should I fear to show my 
shirt? When summer simmers hot as 
Hades, let's take a tip from those wise 
ladies. O, on the farm where I was 
born we took no thought for custom s 
scorn, and when we found our bodies 
wet with perspiration or with sweat, I 
will confess, e'en though it hurts, we 
peeled right down to undershirts. Yea, 
when we saw the heat waves dance, 
we often longed to shuck our pants. 
Yv^ith no one but ourselves to please, 
we should have worked in B. V. D's. 
And still, when things grow hot as 
Tophet, I'm bound to grab my coat 
and doff it. My old blue shirt is clean 
and neat, my stout suspenders can't 
be beat. With half my buttons in their 
places, why should I wish to hide my 
braces? When northern zones have 
tropic heats, when Sol unclouded on 
us beats, that outer garment I shall 
dump it; if folks don't like it they can 
lump it. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



The Standing Broad Grin 
The leaves were down, tlie trees 
were bare, like my smooth crown be- 
reft of hair. My pen was poor, my ink 
was pale, my muse was chilled by aut- 
umn's gale, and warned by brisk 
November breezes, I'd shed long since 
my B. V. Deezes. I sat beside the 
kitchen stove and thought with rueful 
soul how many Rural Rhymes it takes 
to buy a ton of coal. The shades of 
night were falling fast when through 
the town some boy scouts passed, 
their banner bearing words like these, 
"Smile a little wider please". O 
friends for you and me, I wis, a need- 
ed lesson lies in this, and we might 
well adopt, I wot, the motto whicfi 
those lads have got. I have a very 
homely mug which looks its worst 
when shut up snug, but I am always 
at my best with mouth spread out 
from east to west. Why should I make 
my troubles known, when other gents 
have got their own and have no re- 
spite or relief from fifty-seven kinds 
of grief. To all my gloom I've tied a 
can, I'll grin like Happy Hooligan. No 
more shall worry keep me slim; I'm 
waxing fat like Sunny Jim. O join 
wth me, this lesson seize, and smile 
a little wider please. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Winter Woes 

Of all the ills with which I'm 
cursed the winter furnace is the 
worst. On balmy days it rolls up 
heat, but balks on days of cold and 
sleet. And ever when my wife com- 
plains I do not take sufficient pains 
nor use my substitute for brains, 
once more the furnace mouth I stoke, 
lonce more the iron bar I poke among 
the cinders, ash and coke. I bend my 
frame at its equator and operate the 
agitator. I get the ?sh 'tis very true, 
but half the fire comes following 
through. Then when my strength is 
quite expended, I find the grate is end- 
for-ended. There's nothing' in the 
world to do but clean it out and start 
anew. In vain my weary eyes I raise 
no snappy kindling meets my gaze. 
Jim Jones, from whom I ordered wood, 
has failed to function as he should. 
That cussed furnace is the reason I so 
lament the vanished season when 
every gent had B. V. D's on, when 
summer birdies lifted lilts and folks 
could sleep without the quilts. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Corn 

From southern vales the corn plant 
came, from lands of gold and Aztec 
fame, where long it held an honored 
place in gardens of a vanished race. 
With gleeful grins the seed we drop, 
with honest pride we pick the crop, 
the flint and dent, the sweet and pop. 
Dame Nature formed it long ago, a 
giant grass in Mexico. From tribe to 
tribe the gift was passed. It reached 
our northern land a.'t last, to serve 
the early settlers' need, a sturdy staff 
of life indeed; to swell with grain the 
Yankee cribs and pad with fat their 
lanky ribs. Still on our tables it ap- 
pears, and in the form of roasting ears, 
against our rugged features pressed, 
it spreads them out from east to west. 
A noble food, but what a pity the way 
we eat it is not pretty. We gnaw it off 
in gulps and gobs, and on our plates 
we pile the cobs. Between the ears we 
hardly pause to wipe the butter from 
our jaws. When sweet corn yearly 
waves its banners we give vacations 
to our manners. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Catalog Time 
Wliere now the winds of March are 
blowing tlie garden sass will soon be 
growing. My muse shall sing man's 
yearly need for onion sets and spin- 
ach seed, shall sing likewise that gay 
deceiver which stimulates our garden 
fever, the subtle seedman's catalog 
whose charms our better judgment 
fog. Its pictured beets and peas and 
chard were never grown in my back 
yard. My radishes are noit so red, my 
punkins not so widely spread, my let- 
tuces refuse to head. The seedsman is 
an optimist and loves the brighter side 
I wist. He does not show in colored 
ed plate the wooly wonns that lie in 
wait. No darkbrown spots like mine 
are seen on his prolific greenpod bean. 
And yet, for planting all agog, I lovb 
that yearly catalog.. I hail with joy 
each harmless fable and plant new 
squashes for my table. For though lay 
r.'kes be bitter things, my cabl)age 
lull of vvorms, by jings, and all my 
snap beans full of strings, still to my 
heart the brown earth calls, Tiid nil 
her summers, springs and falls shall 
Inid my legs in overalls; sha^I ii.id 
me spading loam and sand wit'.i sev- 
en blisters on each hand. 



Rude Rural Rhymej 



Peaches or Pines 
O woodman spare that tree, refrain 
from further hacks and do not swing 
and sling so free yon double-bitted ax, 
but lend a listening ear to me and let 
your arm relax. Our wood supply is 
growing scant — we should not chop 
unless we plant. Ere to Saint Peter's 
choir I've risen to blend my deep bass 
voice with hisn, to thumb and strum 
both flat and sharp on one size ten 
left-handed harp — ere this, I say, has 
come to pass, I'll s'^raitch around in 
leaves and grass to find an oak or 
maple seed, and having stuck it in the 
mead and covered it with loam and 
muck, in later years with any luck, I'll 
have a tree beneath whose boughs the 
woodchucks and the goats may 
browse. "What does he plant who 
plants a tree?" the poet asks of you 
and me. He plants a hope of future 
good in shade and beauty, fruit or 
wood. So here and there tree seeds 
I'll place to benefit the human race. 
Posterity shall view those trees and 
pay me compliments like these. "In all 
his verse together tossed, that Rural 
Rhymer was a frost; we're good and 
glad his works are lost. But as a for- 
estation factor the *bonehead was a 
right good actor, in fact a blooming 
benefactor." 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



A Song of the Sock 
My friend and neighbor, Thomas 
Cox, is very hard upon his socks, for 
be they strongly knit or phony ne 
punctures them with Trilbies bony. 
Though oft his wife darns them and 
him, they will not stay in proper trim, 
but every night some pink will show 
through some new rent in heel or 
toe. When I was young and unbespok- 
en, and not yet wed and halter broK- 
en, I too had often holey socks, and so 
I sympathize with Cox. For at the 
store new brogans trying I found it 
veiT mortifying. With one good foot, 
to save my soul, I could not tell which 
sock was whole. I racked my brain 
with much ado, but never pulled the 
proper shoe; and gazing on my shrink- 
ing skin the clerks and customers 
would grin. No longer worried as be- 
fore, I seek with pride the general 
store and kick both shoes across tne 
floor; for I am wed to Hannah Jane 
and both my socks are safe and sane. 
So all day long I sing her praises, and 
fresh shoe clerks can go to blazes. 
Yea when she reads this Rural 
Rhyme, she'll feed me well at dinner 
time; my stockings extra smooth 
she'll keep and bake a cake three lay- 
ers deep. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Hair Tonic 

I hear that milk and garden greens 
have snappy things called vitamines 
that give us health and strength and 
pep and put the ginger in our step, 
but what is this I also hear from 
folks who ought to know that vita- 
mines will help to make our hair and 
whiskers grow. I find my Jove-liiie 
dome of thought of shade not quite 
bereft. I'll use this happy hunch and 
keep what herbage I have left. The 
razor makes a daily trip along my 
chin and jowls and lip, so by my wife 
it is not feared that I will ever raise 
a beard or whiskers like a Bolsheviit; 
but O I want my hair to stick. Upon 
my brain pan flies would crawl if I 
should sport no hair at all, and those 
that lit upon my head would have to 
wear a non-skid tread. They'd slip and 
slither on my scalp like mountain 
climbers on an Alp. To ward them off 
my hair I'll keep though I chew lettuce 
in my sleep. To nourish bristles on 
my brow I'll buy myself a mooley cov/. 
If milk and vegetables clinch the 
thatch upon our beans, so help me 
Pete but I will eat a lot of spinach 
greens. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



The Rooster 

The rooster is a lusty bird; in all 
the land his voice is heard, a proud 
and haughty bird by heck who flaps 
his wings and curves his neck. From 
east to west, from perch and pole, his 
morning bugle echoes roll, arousing 
men from snoring deep and maidens 
from their beauty sleep. He hunts for 
worms with main and might, and 
finding one, with huge delight, to whet 
his harem's appetite, he calls his 
wives with trill and hum, then — humor 
great but manners bum — he eats it up 
before they come. Now, whether Red 
or Plymouth Rock, one half is he of 
all the flock, and chickens mostl.v 
favor dad in qualities both good and 
bad. But when the hatching season's 
over, we must restrain this gallant ro- 
ver, must shut him up in lonely state 
and keep the layers celibate. Their 
eggs will thus repay our toil when fer. 
tile ones would quickly spoil. The man 
who'd be a fresh egg booster must seg- 
regate that old he-rooster. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Keep The Home Flowers Blooming 
The rose has reds the violet blues 
and other flowers have other hues. 
When all without is storm and gloom, 
I lovo the brightness of a room lit by 
a red geranium bloom. Sweet summer 
comes and brings some phlox some 
Bouncing Betts and hollyhocks. The 
rose is red and on its head fall gently 
rain and dew, no Lome, though neat, 
is quite complete without a bush or 
two. The rose is red the violet blue 
whenever spring comes back; he 
starves his soul who does not have 
some flowers 'round his shack. The 
farmer tilLsi on vales and hills food 
crops his fathers knew, but let him 
raise by walks and ways his mother's 
posies too. We give him praise who 
spends his days with Ceres not with 
Mammon, and with her grain from 
hill and plain puts fat the porker's ham 
on; but let him steal an hour to feel 
the love of gentle Flora, upon his 
knees to plant sweet peas for wife or 
Sister Dora. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Your Editor Speaks 

We love this town, there's nothing 
like it, however far and wide we hike 
it. We're glad we came, we gladly 
linger and sling the type with skillful 
finger. Our feet and heart are over- 
size; with weal or woe we sympathize. 
We're tickled as that budding Beecli- 
er when church folks raise the local 
preacher. From Jimmy Smith's first 
wailing breath to when his eyes are 
closed in death, there's scarce a word 
or work or caper but interests the lo- 
cal paper. The member of the Ladies' 
Aid by whom the first prize pie is 
made, we're good and glad to cele- 
brate her, and, if unwed, thus help to 
date her. Each doubting Thomas to 
convince, we give her recipe for 
mince, and say our teeth have never 
sunk in a pie so pleasing as her punk- 
in. When Minnie finds her latest pet 
as good as she will likely get, we print 
kind words about the wedding, e'en 
though we fear they'll have hard sled- 
ding, felicitate the bride and groom 
and hope to see the birthrate boom. 
We want the news but want the best; 
we censor some and print the rest. 
Send in the facts and keep them com- 
ing, we like them fresh and hot and 
humming. Send in the news but 
search your heart; be sure it holds no 
poisoned dart. In all the land there is 
no cuss so mean as old Anonymous. 
We go each night in peace to roost 
if we have done our daily boost; but 
nightmares come to fright and shock 
lor every mean and measly knock. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Garlic 

Our garden crops have come from 
far where other climes and peoples 
are. From mountain valleys of Peiu 
the snappy snap bean comes to you. In 
Mexico sprang Indian corn, in India 
the cuke was born. The cabbage hails 
from Europe's sea land, hot weather 
spinach from New Zealand. But there's 
one peppy garden plant we natives 
mostly do not want. When long of 
yore its fumes arose and helped to 
shape the Roman nose, a favored food 
was garlic then for fighting fowls and 
fighting men. They mixed it with the 
warrior's hash and with the rooster's 
morning mash. It kept the legions 
primed for war till fear of Rome 
spread near and far, and doubtless 
made game fighting cocks of pacifis- 
tic Plymouth Rocks. A shrinking rah- 
bit fed up thus would lick a hippopot- 
amus. Hence sprang old tales of sud- 
den death from dragons slaying with 
their breath. 



Rucie Rural Rhymes 



So, Bossy, So 

O there are many breeds of kine, 
the Shorthorn coarse, the Jersey fine, 
the black and white of ancient line, 
as well as scrub or garden cows that 
on our rugged hillsides browse. On 
weeds and grass and leaves of trees, 
they ruminate upon their knees, and 
thus extract the vitamines from forty 
different kinds of greens. I oft have 
sung, I sing again the uses of fresh 
milk to men. To hymn its praise I 
never tire; my thumb is ever on my 
lyre. I learned its use when very 
young; it suits my palate and my 
tongue. I drink a pint from timje to 
time, then straighway write a Rural 
Rhyme. We need some vitamines each 
day; they help us work; they help us 
play. Had we four stomachs like the 
kine, we too on foliage might dine, on 
daisy, dock and buttercup, we too 
might breakfast, lunch and sup, and 
thus obtain the A's and B's and other 
vitamines like these. But since we 
have one tummy each and bulky 
foods are out of reach, let's keep 
good cows upon the land, the Guern- 
sey or some other brand, and get our 
clover second hand. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Biddy Protests 

"I celebrate the good old days when 
no one checked up on our lays. These 
modern methods make me sick," thus 
spake old Biddy Dominick. "We laid 
to please ourselves you bet, folks took 
what fresh eggs they could get. We 
were not kept a narrow yard in but 
wandered freely through the garden: 
for every hen and every chicken had 
all out doors to scratch and pick in, 
and as we ambled here and there of 
every crop we took our share. Al- 
though we roosted oft in trees and 
shivered in the midnight breeze, no 
sane man looked for winter eggs nor 
watched the color of our legs. We 
slept at night like Christian folks and 
had no wish to make more yolks; but 
now we stay up half the night and 
lay our eggs by Mazda light. If I 
should go too soon to slumber some 
watchful gent would take my number. 
Of proper privacy divested, we're 
caught and pinched and weighed and 
tested. This culling business I pro- 
test; I'm growing old, I want to rest, 
but I must still perform as rated or 
have my old head amputated. If I my- 
self escape the block, some friends 
are missing from the flock and when 
the honeymoon is over, they seize and 
execute my lover; yea when the hatch- 
ing season's done they swat my hus- 
band and my son." 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Cheese 

On wintry nights and rainy days I 
often sit beside the blaze and Han- 
nah, while I toast my shins, will read 
to me some bulletins. Among instruc- 
tive college prints, there's none more 
full of helpful hints than that which 
tells us forty ways to use the cheeses 
and the wheys, each one of which de- 
serves our praise. Before I heard that 
treatise wise I filled myself with meat 
and pies, with four boiled eggs and 
things like these, and then I ate a 
hunk of cheese. I had the stomachache 
all night, and nightmares came my 
soul to fright, I tossed about with 
grief and groans, while all the neigh- 
bors heard my moans. From this good 
bulletin I learn, that when for cheese 
our bosoms yearn, we should not first 
take all that comes, then add the 
cheese to full-fed tums but we should 
think of it as meat, and use discretion 
when we eat. For this my gratitude is 
deep; I wisely dine, then sweetly 
sleep, no more I thrash around and 
weep. Instead of ghosts and specteis 
grim, I dream of saints and seraphim. 
In loaf or casserole or rabbit, the use 
of cheese is now a habit. No book of 
poems brings me bliss to equal bul- 
letins like this. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Truth and Tombstones 
When through the quiet fields I go 
where side by side sleep high and low, 
I seldom see an epitaph which teiis 
the truth or even half. If we could sift 
the wheat from chaff, if pious lies no 
more were read but only bitter truth 
instead, with little left to soothe and 
please, some stones would tell us facts 
like these: "Poor Mary Jones lies m 
this tomb, she pushed too far a heav}' 
broom. Her husband grieves, his sor- 
row deeper because he bought no car- 
pet sweeper." "In memory of Hetty 
Burke who died of general overwork. 
Her husband finds it m;uch more both- 
er to save one wife than get another. 
He'll not be long a widowed weeper, 
hired help is dear but wives are 
cheaper." "Here Susan Smith has re;=it 
at last, too many children came too 
fast." "Here lies the wife of Hapgood 
Hicks who did the weekly wash for 
six. She's glad to rest beneath these 
sods; she carried water seven rods." 
Life's burdens should be justly shar- 
ed. Some husbands could be better 
spared than wives for whom these 
stones were squared. Dry-eyed we'd 
plant those selfish coots and leave 
them there till Gabriel toots. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



The Apple Cure 
To regulate the human gizzard and 
all man's frame from A to izzard, the 
good red apple is a wizard. When 
Mother Eva picked her lunch I'll say- 
she had the proper hunch. The one 
she ate she found a seed in, and hav- 
ing sneaked it out of Eden, she plant- 
ed it and so I wist became the first 
pomologist, and put one over on her 
pardner who thought himself the only- 
gardener. To eat each day a juicy- 
pome will keep the doctor from your 
home, so shed your nightshirt, rise he- 
times, and pick yourself a Golden 
Grimes. No more I ween will old Doc 
Green come ramping up in his mach- 
ine all set to amputate my spleen. No 
m©re he'll jab, with hand expert, to 
find the spots he knows will hurt. No 
longer overwoik his brain and all its 
fine ball-bearings strain, determining 
a diagnosis before he tells me what 
the dose is. Instead of pills of varied 
size I'm eating Winesaps, Yorks and 
Spies. And you I hope will follow suit 
and fill yourself with wholesome fruit. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Name Your Farm 

If you possess a likely farm, chuck 
full of crops and cows and charm, you 
ought to give a name to it, like "Har- 
vest Hills" or "Bodger's Bit." And 
yet, I pray you, do not choose the 
common names that others use, the 
"Hilltop Farms" and "Valley Views," 
lest, when you s'iamp the same some 
day, on cheese or prunes or hops or 
hay, the Patent Office man may say: 
"Lay off that name, for it appears, m 
Podunk, Maine, John Henry Squeers 
has used it umpty-seven years." So 
work your brains and let them wan- 
der in search of new names here and 
yonder, through tales and myths and 
old traditions that fit your farm and 
its conditions. From Palestine and 
Greece and Rome, bring poetry and 
romance home. If you have oaks try 
"Druid Grove" or some neat refer- 
ence to Jove. If you raise mules, like 
my friend Bill, you might do worse 
thai "Balaam Hill." Yea, if the job 
were wished on me to say what each 
farm's name should be, my choice 
would fit at any rate, but might be 
too appropriate. For you and I and all 
men know some farms that should be 
"Housewife's Woe," and proud poss- 
essors would not swallow my "Hope- 
less Hill" or "Slipshod Hollow." 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Old King Coal 

This is the hungry furnace door 
that eats up coal and calls for more. 
This is the coal for eighteen bones, 
so. full of slate so full of stones, or 
other grades for twenty plunks, but 
likewise full of clinker chunks, that 
go in through the furnace door and 
leave it hungry as before. These are 
the ashes dead and white to be scraped 
out both morn and night. This is 
the bard in these hard times who 
spends his dollars and his dimes, ob- 
tained by writing Rural Rhymes, for 
bum black diamonds long on slate, 
which sail in toward the furnace 
grate and leave it still insatiate. This 
is the shovel full of nicks with which 
the bard performs his tricks and 
puts in many weary licks; the poker 
too and eke the shaker, which worry 
that old rhyming faker till he says 
words nor right nor wise for one who 
hopes that, when he dies, he'll find in 
Peter kindly feelings and have an end 
of furnace dealings. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



It Pays To Advertise 

The little flowers by hill and dell 
have learned their little lesson well. 
They breathe sweet scents for bees 
and tlies because it pays to advertise. 
The insect visitors that fall in or 
light upon the edge and crawl in, the 
butterflies and bugs and ants get pol- 
len on their coats and pants, and 
willy-nilly thus they share in every 
floral love affair. If I had peach and 
apple trees, I'd put the proper spray 
on these, and when the fruit was red 
and ripe I'd tell the world in good 
plain type, so plain that they who ran 
might read and buy the fruit their 
children need. That ad, so neatly i 
would phrase it that every dame and 
gent would praise it. In long im- 
patient lines they'd stand to buy the 
Rural Rhymer brand. To keep their 
lungs and livers right they'd chew my 
apples day and night. A primrose 
by the river's rim, plain primrose was 
to me and Jim, and no one else had 
greatly prized it until the poet adver- 
tised it. The meanest flower that 
grows I think might make a hit 
through printer's ink. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



A Rude Rural Valentine 

The rose is red tlie violet blue, this 
Valentine is meant for you. The Feb- 
ruary days are classy, our good re- 
solves are not yet brassy. The rose is 
red the lily white, some couples fall in 
love at sight; to bring some others in- 
to line requires a saint like Valentine, 
and not another month, I wot, a spiffy 
saint like him has got. The second 
month with him alone can well for 
lack of length atone. This is the 
month when lovers kiss and lie a 
little too I wis; for each will swear, 
then swear some more, that neither 
ever loved before. The rose is red 
the chestnut green, they spring some 
chestnuts too I ween. But though 
their vows be trite and old, no whiter 
lies are ever told, for she tells him and 
he tells her, not what they are but 
wish they were. So let them wander 
hand in hand and heart to heart in 
fairyland. I too will rise and thumb 
my lyre, I too will share their youth- 
ful fire. Yea, though my bald dome 
shiny is, and though you creak with 
rheumatiz, the rose is red the violet 
blue, love still has sweets for me and 
you. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Hairy Vetch 

In the pleasant summer weather, 
rye and vetch grew green together. A 
boy came over hills and hollov/s saw 
the vetch and spoke as follows: "Fun- 
ny little purple pea, what can you io 
for me? I see you twining in the rye, 
where it stands head high; I see your 
lacy leaves grow, pretty purple posies 
blow, what's your use, I want lo 
know?" "My beauty would be some 
excuse, had my vine no other use, 
smiling at you from the rye as you 
wander barefoot by. But I have other 
uses; root nitrogen my best excuse is. 
Plow us under and entomb us, rye and 
I will give you humus. In your field or 
garden plot, bury us and let us rot. 
With a little longer stay, mowed in 
June and stowed away, we make 
mighty tasty hay. We grow well in 
falls and springs; guess we have our 
place, by jings, in the general scheme 
of things." Once a better bard than I 
wrote of coming through the rye. So I 
make this rhyming sketch in honor ol 
rye'is chum, the vetch. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Coffee 
I speak the truth, I stand in sooth 
within a prophet's shoes; I dare to say 
that coffee has a kick almost like 
booze. From Greenland's icy moun- 
tains to India's coral strand, my fel- 
lov/ men pay francs and yen each for 
his favorite brand. It is a mighty 
stimulant, a habit forming drug, as 
potent as the erstwhile beer or cider 
from a jug. When this for evening 
drink I steep, I go to bed and do not 
sleep; when this for morning use 
I brew, I feel as young and fresh as 
you. Two hours or three I'm on the 
jump, but after that my feelings 
slump. It is not good for me at all, it 
irks my liver and my gall. Yet when 
to quit it I begin, I act as mean and 
cross as sin. I shun the cup for many 
a day then fall once more beneath its 
sway. Now, while my weakness I de- 
plore, I think I'll take just one cup 
more. The flesh is weak and though 
I aim right soon to quit the coffee 
game, I hope they keep their pucker 
still, those sweating peasants of Bra- 
zil. I hope the Arab from his tent, a 
bumper coffee crop has sent, to carry 
with it everywhere its moratorium of 
care. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Do It Now 

In doing work a choice of plan is 
free to any maid or man, to either la- 
bor when they ought to, or else to 
wait until they've got to. The latter 
method is the one by which most hu- 
man tasks are done. If in the spring 
betimes I take, from off its nail a 
snag tooth rake, with ease I curry up 
the lawn, and burn the trash that lay 
thereon. If then I seize the waiting 
mower and drag it through the open 
door, that tool and I, like frolic frisk- 
ers, slip o'er the lawn and trim its 
whiskers. While here and there I tio 
a scooting, the weeds and grass fly 
scalahooting; in joyful haste the task 
is sped; the lawn is slick as buttered 
bread. But if I let the raking go, and 
let the dandelions grow, the mower 
clogs on hill and hummock; its handle 
jabs me in the stomach, and thus a- 
gainst my gizzarr". pressed, it knocks 
my temper galley west. O if I polish 
off the weeds, and leave some room 
for garden seeds, I soon have lettuce, 
onions, beets, and other classy garden 
eats; but this advice no merry josh is, 
where you grow weeds you caa't gr-'W 
squashes. Instead of dallying and 
chewing the needed tasks we should 
be doing. In skirt or shirt or waist or 
britches, a stitch in time saves lots of 
stitches. When death shall give us 
our quietus, well finished work in 
heaven will greet us, but jobs undone 
will rise to vex us and swat us in the 
solar plexus. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



The Household Budget 

Before he traveled far in life Jim 
Henry Smith annexed a wife; then 
straightway loosened up his collar 
prepared to chase the nimble dollar. 
But all he earned his bride would 
spend; her wants and needs seemed 
without end. A nickel for a spool of 
thread and ten cents for a thimble 
and other things of higher price from 
Isenstein or Gimbel. In shopping trips 
she found delight. She searched Jim's 
trousers every night. There came a 
daughter, then a son, and they were 
dear more ways than one. For though 
he loved them bona fide, it cost to 
feed and clothe and didy. Smith's 
credit smashed to smithereens; he 
had no jitneys in his jeans. Then 
wiser grown, Jim Henry's spouse 
drew up a budget for her house, as- 
signed her dollars, dimes and cents to 
balance income with expense, a lot foi' 
food, a bit for frills, for movies, 
church, and pale pink pills. So now 
she knows just where she's at, and 
Jim no more is busted flat. He walks 
the street in manly pride nor looks 
for duns from side to side. He pays 
each month the merchant's tallies and 
is not dodging through the allies. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Here Comes The Bride 

This is the merry month of June 
which sets the wedding bells in tune, 
when men see those who soon will 
boss 'em all camouflaged with orange 
blossom. O blushing bride, O gentle 
dear, push back the tresses from your 
ear, I have some words for you lo 
hear. When all mankind were troglo- 
dytes, before the dates that history 
cites, a female person had no rights. 
The bridegroom's plan for home sweet 
home was bending saplings on her 
dome. But times have changed since 
those beginnings and women long 
have had their innings. Since Satan 
made the rolling pin, the human head 
is all too thin. If Jason calls his soul 
his own, rap gently on his frontal 
bone, but bear in mind the tool is 
meant to stupefy, not crack or dent. 
From self assertion you must wean 
him, but do be careful when you bean 
him. I wish you luck, I hope you win, 
I'm very strong for discipline; but yet 
as oft as once a week, for him some 
freedom I bespeak, and you should 
give no wrathful sign, providing he is 
home by nine, nor bounce his head .v 
gainst a rafter for coming just a min- 
ute after. So, nobly just, but sternly 
great, step to the helm and navigate; 
you are the captain, he the mate. And 
when he tries back talk with you he'll 
soon be nothing but the crew. Nay 
more, if he a bit too far go, he may be 
classed as simply cargo. 



Ruoe Rural Rhymes 



He Feeds Us All 

The farmer's tasks are never done; 
He works two eight-hour days in one; 
till daylight saving knocks him flat 
by adding one more hour to that. In 
certain years the crops won't grow, 
when they do well the price is low; so 
raising little, naught, or much, he's 
very apt to get in Dutch. And when 1 
see him on the jump, I sometimes 
think that he's a chump for raising 
food that loafers eat; whose pantd 
wear only at the seat; then taking all 
the market's chance, producing wool 
to patch those pants. Of course, be- 
sides those lazy folk who sidestep ev- 
ery labor yoke, he feeds some worthy 
people too, hard-working scouts like 
me and you. If he should quit all 
things would slump; I hope he still 
stays on the jump; and I am filled 
with gratitude for fifty-seven kinds 
of food. Should need arise, so help 
me Pete, I'd go and help him husk his 
wheat. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



The Community Newspaper 

Of all the sheets from East to Wesc 
the local paper is the best. Doep i 5 our 
love and deep our debt to Record, 
Journal or Gazette. When first I land- 
ed on thi;5 ball, a bit of flesh W':-ai;ped 
'round a squall, it welcomed me with 
joy and pride my life has neve:- justi- 
fied. It follows me my whole life 
through, with words all kind and most- 
ly true; and even after I am hearsed 
'twill tell my best and hide my worst. 
When in Oshkosh or Wickiup I wander 
homesick as a pup, or if in foreign 
lands I roam, it brings me pleasant 
news of home. Across the sands, ac- 
ross the sea, the old home paper 
comes to me. It is a friend both true 
and tried, and to it, gents', I point 
with pride; yea, I will hock my Sun- 
day pants to pay up six years in ad- 
vance. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



A Rural Book 

The Bible is a rural book. From 
pastured hills the prophets look; the 
inspiration of their word, stern voices 
in the storm winds heard. When Hea- 
ven's light on Jacob shone his head 
was pillowed on a stone. The city no 
such vision yields; his ladder rested 
in the fields. Not yet a king, by wood 
and rock, Saul sought his father's 
straying stock. Young David watched 
the grazing sheep, the flock from 
wolves and bears to keep. With 
pebbles from a country brook, the 
great Philistine's life he took. All 
scripture heroes had their birth, 
where naked feet touch naked earth. 
And one there was, exceeding them, 
who walked Main Street in Bethlehen? 
and kept with angel voices tryst; a 
small-town carpenter was Christ, He 
wrought no stately mansion's ribs but 
homely things like babies' cribs. We 
celebrate his natal day; and even 
cities own his sway, but still, as then, 
the fields rejoice and praise him with 
a clearer voice. No little village gav-3 
him death, no Bethany nor Nazareth. 
His words were words of life to them: 
men slew him in Jerusalem. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Feeding Father 

We know the latest diet rules and 
raise the children by them; they keep 
ma slim and Susan plump, but father 
will not try them. Man wants but little 
here below nor wants that little long, 
but pa wants coffee thrice a day and 
wants that coffee strong. We know 
that fruits are good for pa, we steam 
them, boil them, bake them, we cook 
them fifty-seven ways but can't make 
father take them. We serve him eggs 
in many styles, we scramble, poach 
and beat them; they must be fried 
like tough raw hide, or father will not 
eat them. The healthful greens and 
stringless beans his palate do not 
tickle, but he will shout for sourkrout 
nine wienies and a pickle. He's bust- 
ing all nutrition rules in spirit and in 
letter, he wants fried spuds three 
times a day, the greasier the better. 
If pa still stubbornly persists. Dame 
Nature's wrath to brave, we fear, by 
gum,, that he will come to an untimely 
grave. Just how he'll fare when over 
there and what he'll chew we know- 
not. How will he eat celestial meat 
without a soggy doughnut? Above the 
choir they'll hear our sire; above its 
loud hosanna, he'll criticize the lack 
of pies and kick about the manna. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Bill Quits 

We view the farmer with alarm be- 
cause he won't stay on the farm. He 
moves to town and there he lives, 
while here and yon his flivver flivs, 
and city papers wonder why he thus 
neglects our food supply. How can he 
tear him self away from smells of 
flowers and new mown hay? I tracks d 
one rustic to his flat and begged 
of him, by this and that, to answer if 
he felt no shame, in spite of youth 
and stalwart frame to quit thus cold 
the farming game. "Nay, nay" quoth 
he, "by ding and dang, I suffer not a 
single pang. The crops I sold went 
cheap as dirt, I needed cash for baby's 
shirt, and for my wife's — that is to say 
— ^though South Sea belles wear suits 
of hay, my woman hates to dress that 
way," "But Bill" says I, "all men are 
brothers, you farmers ought to feed 
the others." "The worid can feed it- 
self" he said, and threw me out upon 
my head. Too husky he for me to 
fight, and anyway the cuss was right. 
Long laboring hours and meager gain 
this rural exodus explain. 



Rude Rural Rhymes 



Dinner's Ready 

Awake my muse, get going some; 
for good Thanksgiving time lias come, 
witli foods that please the human turn. 
How dear to my heart is the Thanks- 
giving bird when segregated from the 
herd and served upon a platter fair 
with drumsticks stuck up in the air. 
For us he pipped his speckled shell 
and w^andered over hill and dell. He 
hunted worms, he gulped them down; 
he made good meat both white and 
brown. For us the sprightly punkin 
vines broke through the com rows' 
stiffer lines, set orange fruit with 
golden meat and made pie-filling rich 
and sweet. For us the biddies, white 
and red, laid eggs in barn, garage and 
shed, while cows ate dock and other 
greens to fill ^their milk with vitamines. 
I pity those dyspetic jays with extra- 
careful eating ways who do not like 
Thanksgiving days, but hail "with joy 
the lad who's able l^o stretch his feet 
beneUh the table,- and lodged in that 
strategic place feed double rations to 
his face. 



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